John Rufo

We went way down and crossed over to the side that isn’t even other it’s an ether and breath, it’s the breathing on time and all out of sorts, my sort of quarrel with the cosmos and the down-drop-dew you sow into the earth (or else) (or else what?). The questioning teeth and its own kind of regime. Making hair over ten times, showing it again and again, this time will be different but it’s the same old different, still all sensational. Motion. Cleaning out the archives, the attic. A genealogy foretold and borrowed coats. You know that song? It’s delphinium and orchid. I’m overtime. Let’s get it together once more to make it more than it could ever be moreover. The truth is. Having said that. On time and on our way, tell Mars and Mercury and Jupiter to move over: what kinda intelligence generates such sensations and sessions: b-side, arithmetic, osmosis, asthmatic, ash, and matter. Mother mother / be well be well. I keep saying it over bc I can’t get it outta my damn head. And I hear it so sweet full softly, like a low sizzle on stove. You’re an ago and then you’re gone, but you haven’t gone so far that it’s further than my comprehension, apprehension, hesitancy, talk of sex and the beautiful ones. Your photographs much more than factor: they are the outcome. And it’s all fleeting-fabric-like: underwater. That’s light light light. Ghosts in chorus laughing hallelujah. This making all hell break loose.